From Purity To Perverse
by Vixen2004
Summary: With their monochrome palettes of pink and love for abundant foliage, how can you deny the chemistry between these two garden frenzied individuals? She's more than an innocent ingenue, and he more than an effeminate bishie with too much estrogen. A X M.


_From Purity To Perverse_

Aerith x Marluxia

These two go so well together, what with their monochrome shades of pink and love for abundant petaled foliage, how could I _not_ indulge in the cracktastic pairing of these garden frenzied individuals? And Marluxia is indeed more than a one dimensional pretty boy with too much estrogen. Figured you should know. (Never mind I helped make up the ranks of stereotypical! Marluxia for some odd three years - I aim to rectify the egregious error of my ways with this ... collection of awkward romance. Let's see how it goes.)

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Preliminary Author's Note

A collection of light, fluffy, short chapters – something I did not think myself capable of doing, but probably should so I can somehow devise a way to finish up all my other projects before carking it and getting buried six feet under. Dictating through an Ouija Board is not my medium of choice, but thanks for the offer – even if there was none. Let me pretend, yes? Regardless, they will all be cohesive uploads, just not epic odysseys in length.

With that being said: onward towards the cracktastic crack!

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Dedication

My unyielding gratitude goes out to whoever first suggested I write this pairing – it was one of my reviewers who was kind enough to post the suggestion, and search as I may, I could not relocate the origin of this person's intriguing idea.

If you're out there, let me know.

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Part One

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Marluxia is trying to figure out what it takes to be a man and he's not too sure he likes what he's come to conclude.

His gut has already verified what he is all too scared to allow his logic to admit – that perhaps males with chronically pasty complexions and luminescent pink hair (that doesn't fall, but rather cascades) do not fit into the role of your stereotypical alpha male. That perhaps effeminate fingernails and dainty lips can eclipse rippling pectorals and well sculpted calves – earned through years and years of fighting yet hidden by mere layers of cloak.

His outfit conceals what it should not and showcases what it should conceal.

And regardless of his ambiguous aesthetics, his abnormal infatuation with foliage does not aid him any in his epic quest to fortify his allegedly elusive manhood.

Is it really so heinous that perhaps creating something and watching it grow is more appealing than simply destroying it?

To admit to his innate nurturing tendencies, however, would render whatever argument he had thus prepared to counter it irrevocably worthless. The only respect he had managed to garner so far was through fear, and to expose this facet of his life, even if it is painfully evident through his fighting style, would be like inviting Larxene to walk all over him in a pair of spiked stilettos.

Not that she hasn't taken the initiative to do so already.

At least she assumes he can kill her. Which he can. But he would rather not.

Too much paper work.

And then there is Roxas. What to do with Roxas. That was always the question. Since the boy did not possess the brain matter to actually give a damn about outward appearances, he could be found currently lounging on Marluxia's canopy bed (which was characteristically a monochrome palette of pink) seeking answers to whatever questions were prancing merrily through his hallow little head.

"Hey, Marxie," he intoned, fiddling absent mindedly with the fringe hanging from one of the bed's superfluous pillows. "Why do you like pink so much, anyway?"

It was a typical morning, Marluxia commencing his day with a mundane series of ritualistic activities that he performed with a theatrical flare that would be the envy of every street performer this side of the galaxy. Even the everyday was considered something sacred to revel in.

Days spent above ground are not our innate right – but rather a privilege bestowed upon us by the powers that be.

Why do people insist on taking the normal for granted by dubbing it as _mundane_ or _boring_?

There are so many ways to remedy that, don't they know?

"Why does one like any color?" Marluxia posed, trying to be philosophical but figuring that such things were best left to Zexion. "And why does pink carry such … negative … connotations?"

Roxas blinked his eyes in rapid succession.

"Because isn't pink, like, a girl color?"

The older male paused in light of the current inquiry.

"Larxene does not favor it."

"Well, that's because Larxene doesn't favor _anything_," Roxas grumbled, butt bouncing on Marluxia's mattress. "Hey, Marxie, can I jump on your bed?"

Marluxia flicks his wrist in airy dismissal, for he was preoccupied by the uncalled for wilting of one of his snarpia plants. He was certain he had kept it sufficiently hydrated and the lamp he situated right next to it provided the flowers with the light the moon did not. How, then, had they expired while Marluxia busied himself with far less trivial things like world domination and that keybearer's untimely demise?

This upset him far more than it should have, for when could he escape the concrete jungle of The World That Never Was long enough to procure another snarpia plant that wouldn't judge him for being too aloof or too feminine or too asexual every time he entered the room?

The only one who did not judge him was Roxas, and Marluxia couldn't very well bury him in a plethora of soil and stick him in a pot, now could he?

"Clarissa died," Marluxia murmured forlongingly, voice gossamer and melodic despite his rippling pectorals.

"Clarissa?" Roxas repeated, scrunching up his nose like a slinky. "Dude, you name your flowers?"

"Well , they are living beings, are they not?"

The boy paused in the lull that followed the previous question while the lither of the two carried on by placing the remains of his late snarpia plant into a cardboard box.

"You're not actually going to hold a funeral for the thing, are you?"

"No," Marluxia informed him sharply. "But I do intend to bury it."

"Emo," Roxas drawled, sticking his finger down his throat and pretending to gag. "Why are you gonna bother to do that? So you can angst over it?"

"No," Marluxia reiterated once again, only this time it was accompanied by a mangled sigh. "So it can _grow_ again, Roxas. Then I can figure out what I did wrong."

"Perfectionist," Roxas buffed. "And what are you gonna name that one, Annabelle?"

Maluxia came to an abrupt halt.

"Annabelle?" At this he smirks. "I named the rose bush Annabelle."

The Chosen One dead panned.

"You need to get laid."

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Author's Notes

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Thanks for reading!


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